Page 55 of Hellbent

From the old-school baseball pennants to the inevitable Marilyn poster, the manufactured nostalgia made the place seem like a location from a TV show, a faux diner set decorated to look like a real diner.

Evan ate egg whites scrambled with spinach and dosed heavily with Tabasco. Joey picked at a stack of pancakes, furrowing the pooled butter with the tines of her fork.

Conversation had been in short supply since the incident in the car.

Evan set down his fork, squaring it to the table’s edges. A few drops of coffee formed a braille pattern next to his plate, remnants from the waitress’s lazy pour. He resisted for a few seconds and then caved, wiping them clean with his napkin.

Joey remained fascinated with her pancakes. Her rucksack rested next to her, touching her thigh, the closely guarded life possessions of a street dweller.

Evan searched for something to say. He had no experience when it came to matters like this. His unconventional upbringing had turned him into something sleek and streamlined, but when he collided with the everyday, he felt blunt, unwieldy.

Then again, he supposed she wasn’t very good at this either.

He watched her eviscerate her short stack.

“If you’re fighting off an attacker—a real attacker—go for the throat or eyes,” he finally said. “Up and under. If you swing for the head, he can just duck, protect his face, take the blow off the top of the forehead where the skull is thickest.”

Her mouth gaped, but for once no words were forthcoming.

He sensed he had said something wrong.

“Are you seriously turning this into a teaching moment?” she said.

The best course of action, he decided, was to consider the question rhetorical.

But she pressed on. “Everything doesn’t have to be some learning experience.”

He thought of his upbringing in Jack’s farmhouse, where every task and chore held the weight of one’s character—making the bed, drying the dishes, lacing your boots.

How you do anything is how you do everything.

“Yes,” Evan said. “It does.”

“You’ve seen me fight,” she said. “I know how to fight. That wasn’t about fighting. It was just … a startle response.”

“A startle response.”

“Yes.”

“You need a better startle response.”

She shoved her plate away. “Look. I just got caught off guard.”

“There is no ‘off guard,’ Joey. Not once you get on that bus in Helena. Not for a second. That’s how it is. You know this.”

She collected herself. Then nodded. “I do.” She met his stare evenly. “Throat and eyes.”

Though the sky still showed a uniform black, a few early-hours patrons filtered in—truckers with stiff hats, farmers with worn jeans and hands that rasped against their menus.

“You’ll be okay,” Evan said. “The farther you are from me, the safer you’ll be.”

“You heard him. He’s not gonna let me go.”

“He’s gonna have his hands full.”

“I think we’re safer together.”

“Like at your apartment? The train station? That pest-control shop in Central Eastside?”